Wednesday, November 26, 2014

If you bitches were worried about Ebola, gird your loins because there's another epidemic taking over the world and it's worse. Much, much worse. I mean I didn't go to medical school or anything but in my humble opinion, this shit is fucked up.

Before you go on WedMD and start overanalyzing your stool and the color of your urine (which I've recently found out is as easy as yellow urine = good, yellow poop = bad), in this case WedMD ain't gonna help your ass. The affliction I'm referring to is oversharing, also known as diarrhea of your fucking mouth.

I've noticed on the last few dates I've been on the conversation goes straight from, "What do you do?", "Do you have any pets?", to "Are you into anal beads and getting smacked in the face while I call you Mommy?". Umm...sorry what did you just say? I was trying to decide if I was ready to tell you my dog's Christian name and now I know that you're probably going to want me to wash your butt plugs post-coitus. I don't really believe in too soon, but TOO FUCKING SOON BRO.

The first time it happened I just figured this guy was socially retarded and not aware of his limits due to his less than stellar looking face. Or maybe he really was drunk off one beer and meant to say, "What kind of flowers should I send you on your birthday?". But then it continued to happen. If you wanted to know at what age he lost his virginity, what her name was, what she smelled like and every person he's been inside since; I can provide you that information on the last three dudes I've been on dates with. Even worse, they didn't seem to notice that the more they talked the faster I drank and stared around the bar to see if there was someone else I could leave with who seemed too drunk to make conversation. I'm pretty sure they thought they were nailing it.

Call me crazy but I don't need to know the first and last name and current location of every girl you've penetrated. If I asked you for a list of references, then this would seem relevant. Do you want to know about every dude who's put it in me? Maybe. But I'm sure as fuck not going to talk to you about it. I get that I'm not going to be anyone's first and everyone has a past and all of that. Also, please note that being someone's first has never been on my bucket list and I would appreciate you getting as much practice in as possible before coming in my direction. Or on me, whatever. You have a past, cool. People want to have sex with you, even cooler. However the more you talk about everyone you've ever slept with the more I decide I'm closing shop early and start to smell the STD's living inside your scrotum.

I get where the oversharing comes from; that son of a bitch called the internets. I'm guilty also; case in point this lovely blog you can't stop reading. But I feel like it's different when it's happening near your face and the words are coming out of their face. If someone doesn't like what I say on the internet they can ignore it. I can't really turn off a guy's mouth when I hate what's coming out of it. (Dear Science, please work on making this a possibility. I will give you all the HJ's ever.) Pounding it out with someone for the first time is always a little awkward if you're conscious. I don't need that to be compounded by losing my concentration wondering what Stacey, the girl that was your first 30 second sexual encounter, is up to these days and if she severely fucked you up by pretending you were super good at oral when really you couldn't find the clitoris if it bitch slapped you. (Dear Stacey, stop lying to dudes and fucking it up for the rest of us. Also I hope you're doing well.)

So future dates, please keep in mind that although I'm fun and open and blunt about everything, I don't need to know about every vagina your dick has lived in for a few moments. (This also includes mouth holes and b holes, thanks.) If something comes up in conversation and it seems necessary to share small details of a past pound, then don't let me squelch your light. However if more than three females are discussed on our date I will stab you. With a broken beer bottle. In the left eyeball. You've been warned.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Since I made the responsible decision to get a fake I.D.
at 17-years-old so I didn’t have to drink my friend’s parent’s shitty wine or
steal PBR from the poor liquor store owners, 90% of my interaction with the
opposite sex has involved my sassy sidekick, booze. With her by my side I don’t
care if I make a rape joke and no one laughs. I only feel slightly shamed when
I have sexual encounters with strangers at my brother’s annual Halloween party
every year. Who says no to a dude dressed as Pokey with a dick hole
conveniently cut out of the costume? Or the guy that every girl wanted to bone
in high school who’s now dressed as Wayne from Wayne’s World wearing the most
unfortunate man wig I’ve ever seen? I’m an American. Also, women’s rights and
feminism and shit.

I refuse to go anywhere on a date that doesn’t have
alcohol. Oh you want to go bowling? Perfect because I can order a pitcher of
beer and then down a drink while you’re being cute and purchasing nachos or
some other bullshit I don’t care about. There’s a movie you want to see?
Awesome, I can put a bottle of wine in my purse and uncork it right when people
stop texting and the silence is deafening and then I’m judged. Fuck ya’all, you
know you’re just jealous you didn’t bring your bottle too. Also, family in the
front, I can see your swag from KFC that smells delicious and would probably go
really great with this Sauvignon Blanc. Mind your business. Oh you want to go
to a bar? Fantastic. We’ll look weird if we don’t do body shots and sexually
harass the server. When in Rome...

I consider a date successful if my date went from a
quasi-interesting, semi-employed, 5 on the attractive scale to a super funny,
intelligent rocket surgeon, equal in quirky hotness to Benedict Cumberbatch.
Trust me, this is entirely possible after 5-7 vodka tonics. Also it’s still a
win if I don’t entirely remember his Christian name and only referred to him as
“plaid” but am fully aware that he wears dark grey boxer briefs and has either
a third nipple or poorly placed mole. I mean what’s a name anyway? Fuck the
government.

Nonetheless, since I had recently acquired the nickname
of “One date wonder” (fuck you Erick) I thought I must be doing this whole
dating thing incorrectly. I mean I don’t want to waste my time or anyone
else’s, but I do think sometimes I, and the dudes I meet, make a terrible first
impression so a second date is kind of necessary to decide if we want to pass
out near each other at some point in the future. I decided that unless a date
is TERRIBLE (I’m referring to you, dude that made me hear about everyone he’s
ever penetrated in his entire life) I’m willing to take my Ativan and give it
one more try.

So last week I met a dude for a drink after work. I’m
not sure why he even wanted to meet up with me after I couldn’t maintain
sobriety long enough to make solid plans for a few weeks. Those mother fucking
two day hangovers that start the day you turn 27 are ruining my life. But
finally plans were made, I had no excuse not to go since the bar was literally
5 minutes from my work and my BAC was so low I would die soon if I didn’t take
my medicine (vodka). I’m not going to lie, this whole dating shit was really
bringing me down. I figured at the very least I could drink heavily and then go
die on someone’s couch and buy new clothes for work at Target in the morning. I’m
a planner.

I get to the bar and am pleasantly surprised that this
guy was attractive. Also he wasn’t wearing a t-shirt with stupid shit that’s
supposed to be funny written on it or dad jeans or flip flops or a polo. All
wins for me because these fashion choices by dudes ruin my life. If I can put
on a dress and wear knee high boots and get hair ripped off my labia, you can
sure as shit put on real shoes. Feminism.

The initial disappointment that he wasn’t a sassy, older
black woman catfishing me waned and I was becoming slightly less pessimistic. I
ordered my vodka tonic and switched on the charm.

For some reason I end up on dates or dating either the
male version of Lindsay Lohan, or someone who doesn’t really drink at all.
There is not a male version of drunk me. My friend recently described my new
party style as this: “You rage super hard for 2-3 hours and you kill it. Then
you just die. You’re a corpse and you never resurrect.” It must be the
Norwegian in me. If someone has described you in these exact words and you are
68% employed and own a vehicle, email me. I need to know about you.

Back to my date. So after my first drink I noticed my
date was no longer drinking. Dilemma. Is he waiting it out to see how drunk
I’ll get to decide how DTF I am? Is he super over this situation and being
polite so he can bail when I’m done with my drink? Is it 1:45 already? Am I
DTF? So many fucking questions. This is why I am a complete spaz. This is the
commentary in my brain constantly. Now you know about it and maybe you’ll
understand why I’m making weird faces a lot and squirming uncomfortably. So I
did something weird. I ordered a beer and drank it slowly. I KNOW. MIND
EXPLOSION. Was that the sound of the world ending? I hope Emma Watson runs in
here swinging an ax at me and being all cute and British. (If you don’t get
what movie I’m referencing I’m disappointed in you) But seriously, I remembered
everything and was able to repeat pertinent information back to my friends. I,
just, can’t.

Turns out, I can be somewhat acceptable on a first date
sober. Second date? No fucking way. On the second date I had one beer. ONE
BEER. I need you to read that out loud. Take it all in, like a shiv shoved up
your ass in prison. Feels uncomfortable but not entirely unpleasant, right? Too
far? I don’t give a shit. I basically developed Asperger’s. I no longer
understood social cues like I just talked about something it’s your turn now. I
had to give my undivided attention to every single dog or person that walked
by. I knew I was being a nightmare but I couldn’t fix it. The more I tried to
not be a freak of nature, the more awkward I was. You might think I’m
exaggerating but when the dude went inside for a minute one of the servers came
up to me and gave me pity face and asked if I was okay and said at least twice,
“Can I get you a drink? You look like you need a drink.” Yo, Judge Judy, back
the fuck up! My awkwardness was palpable.

On my drive home I immediately called my friend to tell
her that I was an insane person and shouldn’t be allowed in public. Her take is
that when you’re sober dating you have to actually decide how you feel about
the person sitting across from you. Feelings? Fuck that. I hate those things.
But she’s right. You don’t have the booze barrier to make them more interesting
or provide an iron curtain so no one has any emotions. It’s real life. (Dear
drunk life, I miss you. Even when you pushed me down the stairs and told me I
was unlovable. I know you were only trying to make me a stronger person. Call
me.) Usually I just sit back and let the dude decide. If he’s into it and he’s
persistent I’ll go along with it. If he’s not I’ll accept it and move on.

Now that I actually have to be an adult and decide what
I want it’s foreign. I actually don’t even know what qualities I want in a
person. Is that sad? Don’t answer that because I know it is. This is not a
break up letter to booze. I will never give up on her. I’m just not going to
expect her to make all my decisions and save me from growing up. I will
definitely keep her around for those last minute decisions where I know what I
want to do but need a little nudge in the wrong (but so right) direction. I
also still plan on continuing my 2-3 hour rages and then death on the weekends.
But I’m going to try to figure out what/who/why/how the fuck I’m doing with my
life.

Note: If this does not work out you can find me at The
Federal Bar in downtown Long Beach spilling drinks on the floor and trying to
clean it up because they really hate when you do that. Cheers bitches.